Which the storm-won treasures hold;
And these are they who through life were slaves
To the sordid love of gold;
No other light e’er meets their sight,
Save the gleam of the yellow ore;
And loathe they there, in their dark despair,
What they idolized before.
They have swept o’er the rude and rushing tide,
Bestrewn with wreck and spoil,
Where the shrieking seaman writhed and died